


One Safe Place

by Topaz_Eyes



Category: X Company
Genre: First Time, Hypothermia, M/M, Sharing Body Heat, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-28
Updated: 2016-08-28
Packaged: 2018-08-11 18:22:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,912
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7902982
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Topaz_Eyes/pseuds/Topaz_Eyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Whatever it takes to get through the night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Safe Place

**Author's Note:**

> Occurs before “In Enemy Hands,” but no real spoilers.

They’ve just reached a small storage shed at the edge of the wood when the sky splits open with a blinding crack.

Neil kicks the door open and briefly surveys the inside from the threshold. It's not warm by any means, but it’s shelter from the wind and the elements. It’ll do for waiting out the storm. Satisfied, he then half-walks, half-carries Tom inside, mere seconds before sharp driving pellets of hail pelt down around them.

The shed has a plank floor rather than dirt, though the dust itself is plenty thick everywhere. The sky's alight in force through a small and grimy window, so it's easy to spot a pile of empty gunny sacks in one corner. That's useful, because now they're down to one rucksack between them. Tom's is floating miles downstream by now, lost when he slipped in the mud and tumbled into the current of the swollen creek.

(Jesus, but Tom has the worst luck.)

They hadn't anticipated the flash flood when they tried to cross back. They'd cached the dead drop of firearms they’d been sent to retrieve, on the other side of the bank. They'll have to cross the creek again to retrieve them tomorrow, after it recedes to a safe level and the Boche are off their trail. Neil suspects the guns will be found before they return, but they couldn't risk crossing with them, especially after Tom had fallen into the water. Neil had barely been able to fish him out without falling in himself.

Tom's freezing and soaked right through, so he’s the priority for now. Neil props him against a wall for support, and uses a garden trowel and pitchfork to fasten the broken door lock. He quickly layers the gunny sacks on the floor to form a improvised pad, then hauls out his sleeping bag from his pack. Tom's fingers are too numb to undress himself, so Neil dries him off as best he can, strips him of his sodden clothing, dresses him in a spare (cold, but at least relatively dry) undershirt and shorts, and manhandles him into the bag.

He zips it up and crouches beside him, hand on his forehead. Tom had only been in the water a couple minutes at most, but his skin is already clammy-cold. When the lightning sparks again, his colour is deathly pale and his lips are bluish.

“Sorry, mate, no fire. Don't want to draw the patrols.”

“Understood.” Tom's answer is barely decipherable, the cold already having numbed his mouth too. “S'OK.”

Neil wrings out and drapes Tom’s soaked clothing over some rough-hewn shelving, boots leaning open and upside-down, crossing fingers that everything will be dry by morning. They may be out of the weather, and it may be mid-June, but even inside the air is damp and chilly enough to seep through Neil’s jacket down to his undershirt. Though it's clear after a few minutes' observation, Tom's far worse off from the added dunk in the stream; and in fact he’s not improving at all despite the sleeping bag.

Neil mentally runs through the first aid measures for cold exposure taught at the Camp. “Bloody hell,” he curses under his breath when he recalls the best course of treatment. Annoyance and reluctance war within, but either way it has to be done; he removes his boots, then shakes Tom's shoulder. 

He tries to make himself sound less concerned than he really is. “Right then, you, budge over.”

Tom stares at him, not quite comprehending even as Neil shrugs off his jacket, braces, shirt, and trousers, stripping down to his underclothes. But when Neil unzips one side of the bag, Tom scoots over as ordered. Shivering himself, Neil climbs in, folds the clothing into a makeshift pillow, and zips the bag closed around them. 

It's a rather snug fit for two, but doable. They lie side-by-side at first, Neil hoping that just his presence will generate sufficient heat to warm Tom up. But after a few minutes he’s still radiating cold beneath the down though, enough for Neil to be properly worried.

“Come here,” he says finally, trying and failing to suppress a long-suffering sigh, and he stretches out his arm.

Tom's only too happy to oblige. He slides over to rest flush against Neil, pillowing his head in the crook of his shoulder. Neil flinches at the iciness of Tom's cheek against his own warm skin. He pulls the top of the bag up as high as possible to form a cocoon, then wraps his other arm loosely around him to complete the circle.

“Jesus Christ,” Neil adds softly as Tom practically burrows into him to leach his warmth, “you're a fucking icicle.”

“Always thought you liked to cuddle,” Tom says through chattering teeth.

Even when he’s sick or injured, Tom has to be a smartarse. “Piss off,” Neil counters.

“Hey, nothing wrong with it, I like it too.”

“Yeah, well, this is basic first aid, all right? Nothing more. Shared body heat so you don’t freeze to death.”

“Sure. Still nice, though,” Tom huffs between shivers. “Cozy.”

Neil rolls his eyes and chalks the tripe to Tom's frost-addled mind. “Yeah mate, just don't get used to it.”

Tom snorts, but is quickly overcome by another fit of chills. Neil instinctively tightens his arms around him as if he could ward off the cold by the sheer force of will.

The lightning slowly dissipates, to drop the shed into near-total darkness and leave the rain to drum its roaring beat on the roof of the woodshed. Neil stares straight up at the even blacker shadows of the criss-crossed rafters above him. At first he tries to keep on point, thinks of how to retrieve their stash, assuming it won't be discovered, then how to sneak it past the Boche and back to the safe house in the morning without either of them getting caught or worse.

He tries, anyway. It's difficult to concentrate over the raging torrent outside, harder with Tom shaking non-stop beside him. The only saving grace is that no one would be roaming in a rainstorm like this. The rain’s heavy enough to wash away their scents and footprints; the likelihood of being tracked and discovered here tonight is slim. So he decides it’s best to focus on Tom for the moment. Get him safely through to dawn first, then they can take on the Boche in the day.

Tom rests his arm across Neil's middle, and Neil shakes his head, allowing himself an amused little smirk at the gesture. “Dick,” he says, “rub it in, why don’t you?” Tom snickers between bouts of shivering.

But Neil leaves his arm where it is. And yeah, it's a bit awkward, he thinks, the two of them lying wrapped up together like this, basically skin-to-skin. But it’s out of necessity, so he has no problem with it, And maybe it’s even a bit brilliant, though he’d be hard-pressed to admit it. (More than brilliant, to be honest.) Despite his gruff protest earlier, he welcomes the excuse to share this closeness more than he cares to acknowledge: he almost hadn’t been able to pull Tom out of the swollen current. He’d tamped down his panic then, let the rescue training take over. But it’s sobering to think how close he’d come to losing Tom earlier this evening.

At any rate, he won’t let it happen again if he can help it. Not on his watch. Because of that, he'll happily deal with any of Tom’s dickish antics right now: he’ll do whatever it takes to get them through the night.

(And he’ll never, ever admit to Tom being right about the cuddling part either. He knows the Yankee bastard will _never_ let him live to hear the end of it.)

Tom doesn't find their current situation a problem at all, though, if judging by how Tom's moulded against him — he fits beside Neil like he’s always known he belongs there. Neil blinks and wonders where in bloody hell that thought came from. It feels right, somehow — but something about it also unsettles him deeply. He sets it aside, doesn’t try to parse it any further. He does note how resting his palm broad on Tom's hair seems to help retain the warmth. So he does, and waits, plotting strategies to deal with the Boche, and definitely not thinking about how comfortable this is, as Tom's violent shivering gradually fades in the meantime.

It's too dark to check his watch for the time, so Neil's not sure how long they've been camped in the sleeping bag, but the rain eventually tapers to the kind of steady, soothing patter that will last all night. And at some point, Tom’s breath evens out, his body relaxing as the cold ebbs, until his limbs are sleep-heavy next to him. With Tom finally rewarming, it's clear they’ll be all right presently. 

He should disentangle himself now, Neil thinks; let Tom rest while he keeps vigil til morning. Even though the downpour’s probably washed away all their traces, they can’t be too careful. Though he is, himself, reluctant to leave the comfort of the bag; the air's still right miserable within the confines of the shed. Despite that, he attempts to shift to open the zipper, but Tom moves right along with him.

“Shove off,” Neil murmurs, not unkindly. Tom mumbles something incoherent and hooks his leg across him too.

“Fantastic,” Neil says, and rolls his eyes, but he doesn't have the heart to push Tom away. That's decided then, he's obviously not moving anytime soon. (And again, being honest, he really doesn't mind.) He settles back down, adjusting just a bit to rest his cheek on Tom's forehead to help keep the heat in (or so he tells himself). Lulled by the warmth in the shared sleeping bag, the rhythm of the rain, and the easy weight of Tom resting against him, Neil's eyelids droop, and he begins to drift.

Some time later, Neil startles awake. It takes a few seconds to orient himself; he checks the time, but it's too dark in the gloom yet to see anything on his watch dial. He’s not quite sure what’s roused him at first. The intensity of the rain hasn’t changed; no dogs are barking nearby or in the distance. There are no footfalls or shouts outside, so the Boche are still sitting out the weather. There are no unusual odours in the shed beyond rain-soaked wood, dust, jute, old earth or their own sweat. Nothing is creeping or skittering inside, either. Tom’s still nestled right up against his side, sound asleep, fully warm and recovered—

And rocking lazily against his thigh.

_Jesus Christ._

Neil’s eyes widen for an instant, hoping it’s not what he thinks. He’s dealt with — more accurately, he’s rationalized — everything that’s happened tonight up to this point. They have their differences, sure, but they work reasonably well together. He likes Tom well enough to drink with him; he’s killed on his behalf and being comrades-in-arms he’ll die for him if necessary.

He can’t afford any deeper feelings, though. He can’t. Even if he wanted to, he saw what happened with Aurora and René in Villemarie. And he’s lost too many people he’s loved to the war already. The thought of adding even one more to the list – it’s simply easier all around, less painful in the end, not to let himself go there.

But Tom’s still rocking, and it is what he thinks. Damn it.

He’s not going to panic yet, though. Tom’s dreaming, is all, and it must be a bloody good one. Just wake the Yankee bastard up, make him roll over, and it’s easily forgotten. Besides, it was more than time he got up anyway to keep watch. He shakes Tom’s shoulder.

“Come on, mate. You need to move.”

“Mmm-huh?” Tom stirs, but doesn’t seem to waken.

“Roll over, will ya?” He pushes Tom’s arm off of him. He’d pluck it off and drop it on Tom’s head for good measure, but there’s too little room to manoeuvre in the bag for that.

“’S just me,” Tom mumbles.

“I know that. Now move your arse, Tom.”

“’M not going anywhere.” Tom worms his arm back across Neil’s chest.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Neil mutters, losing his patience. He feels around with his free hand for the zipper. Somehow it’s shifted out of reach, so he has to lean and stretch over Tom to find the tab.

Tom tilts his head up at the exact same time.

It’s not even a kiss: it’s a press of closed lips, warm, soft and slightly dry on his cheek, at the corner of Neil’s mouth.

Tom’s still mainly asleep, so it’s almost entirely accidental; and in truth it’d be hilarious, something to joke about in the morning, if Neil weren’t already rattled by the turn his emotions have just taken. He jolts back, tenses and covers his eyes with a finely trembling hand; laid raw and wondering what the hell to do now.

The jarring wakens Tom to full awareness and he immediately slides as far away as he can in the bag. “Geez, Neil, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” he begins, sounding contrite.

And maybe it's the night, maybe it's a remnant of shock catching up from earlier in the evening.

Or maybe it's the certainty of not knowing how much longer they actually have left, that finally hits home.

Whatever the reason, Neil turns on his side and reaches for Tom in the dark.

He finds him by touch, splays his fingers on his cheek, tilts his chin and leans to kiss him, brushing those ridiculously pliant lips before he can talk himself out of it. One kiss, that’s it. They can laugh awkwardly about it in the morning and put it behind them. Or Tom can clock him one for it right now, and he'd take it gladly. As long as Tom remains alive and breathing beside him at the end of the day, they’ll get by.

But Tom returns the kiss, just as light and tentative. And with it, that brittle resolve within Neil, which had been slowly cracking all night since Tom fell into the stream, shatters to pieces. Everything trapped behind it spreads in ripples outwards from his core, and _Jesus_. The only thing he can think of doing to abate it is to find Tom a second time, kiss him deep and long and full.

Tom closes the distance to lie flush against Neil again, eases Neil’s mouth open with his tongue and slips it inside. Neil can’t help it; he arches forward reflexively, seeking contact. He finds it, rubs hard against Tom until they’re both straining through two thin layers of cotton. He hooks his leg over to draw him even closer, threads his fingers through Tom’s hair and kisses back in kind, until their tongues are twining and he’s almost reeling with the humid scent of their combined musk and the prickling sensation of stubble on his upper lip. 

After a couple minutes it grows far too hot in the sleeping bag for comfort. Neil reaches around with his free hand, finds the tab and unzips it hurriedly, kicks the bag off. The cool air rushes over them but it’s still not enough; he breaks away to shuck the rest of his clothing, and the rustling beside him tells him Tom’s doing the same. When they touch again, Neil rolls onto his back, dragging Tom on top of him. Tom supports himself on his elbows, nudges Neil’s legs apart to align them, and God but his weight is the perfect pressure on his groin.

Their gazes lock; there's finally just enough pre-dawn light in the shed through the window to see Tom's face above him, his parted lips, his hooded eyes. “Fuck, Neil,” he breathes, slowly rolling his hips once, twice. “How long—?”

Neil thrusts up into the heat, rocks against Tom, inhaling sharply as white-hot need surges through him. “Shut up,” he says, low and harsh, cutting him off. He seizes Tom’s head and pulls him down.

It’s graceless and fumbling more than anything at first, Neil’s never done this before with another man and he’s pretty certain neither has Tom. But he doesn’t care because it’s bloody fantastic, how they rut against each other fully pressed together like this. They skate their hands up and down each other’s bodies as far as they can reach, they taste every bit of skin they can, until the war falls away and the world falls away to just skin on skin, breath on breath.

Soon they find their rhythm, fast and desperate. Tom breaks their kiss, leans his forehead on Neil’s shoulder and clutches at his biceps in a frantic search for release. Neil's never known until now, how much he wants to feel Tom come undone; he slides one hand between them, grasping. Tom’s thrusts stutter, then he bucks and gasps into Neil’s shoulder as his climax blooms sudden, warm, and slick.

Tom’s shudders fade and Neil starts to hurtle towards the edge, but something holds him back until Tom’s hand closes over his. His touch obliterates any last bit of resistance Neil has; one, two, three strokes together and Neil lets go too, spills hard and fast over their combined hands with a strangled groan against Tom’s neck.

At some point the rain stopped, so it’s quiet outside and inside the shed except for their shaky breathing as they come down. Tom rolls off, rests his head back on Neil’s shoulder. The slightly acrid scent of sex wafts over them, mingling with the others in the shed. Their hands and bodies are sticky; Neil sacrifices his undershirt for cleaning up. It’s not long before the cold morning air raises goosebumps on their damp skin. Tom roots around, finds the top part of the sleeping bag, pulls it up sloppily to cover them and falls back against Neil with a satisfied huff.

They rest easy at first, but the precious minutes tick away as the light rises towards dawn. They’ll have to leave soon before the Boche are on the move. Neil shifts, turns on his side to gaze down at Tom. And he doesn’t know why, but he feels compelled to do this: to commit the topography of Tom’s features to sense memory before they go.

He trails blunt, sure fingers across Tom's brow, down his nose, grazing over his cheek to the shell of his ear, tracing jawline and chin. He maps the changing textures of Tom’s skin with fierce concentration. Tom stays perfectly still under the caress except for the rise and fall of his chest.

In a way, this touch is more intimate than what they just did.

Maybe that’s the truth that hits hardest for both of them.

Neil swipes his thumb across Tom’s lips and leans down. He owes Tom this, to let him know where he stands. He closes his eyes and pours everything he can into the kiss, everything he’s never allowed himself to say in the past and everything yet to say, because there might not be another chance. 

When he draws back, Tom’s staring at him wide-eyed, momentarily stunned. It’s light enough now in the shed, to see the details in Tom’s eyes as the shock fades, the emotions that cycle through. The last one which settles, to Neil’s surprise and dread, is fear.

“I’m sorry,” Tom says hoarsely, “I can’t.” His face shutters to a careful blankness.

And just like that, he’s closed Neil out.

Neil exhales like he’s been winded from a kick to the solar plexus. “What do you mean,” he asks stupidly, “you can’t?”

Tom sits up, reaches around to find his discarded shorts and undershirt, and pulls them on. “We should get going,” he says, clearly ignoring him, “before the Germans wake up and find us.”

“I asked you a question.” Neil sits up too, tensing; he scowls at Tom as confusion cedes to wounded betrayal. “Cause if I knew—”

“Neil. We need to go.” The look in Tom’s eyes partly warns, partly pleads him not to push it. He rises to standing, turns toward the shelving where the rest of his clothes are laid out to dry.

Neil snaps his mouth shut, fuming, and shakes his head; but Tom’s right of course, they need to be going now. He rises too and dresses quickly, packs away the sleeping bag and dirty undershirt. They should torch the shed to destroy their traces, but the wood’s too wet, it would only smoulder and draw more attention. Instead they do their best to make it appear like wild animals broke in. Just around sunrise, they leave the shed, sneak back towards the stream, which hasn’t yet begun to recede even though the rain’s stopped. 

They have to backtrack their route to find the safest place to cross. They traipse for a good hour upstream through the underbrush to find a shallow, stable enough passage, another hour to hike back along the other side to the drop. In the meantime they don’t talk except when it’s absolutely necessary. They mostly avoid each other’s eyes, keeping lookout for movement through the trees. Though more than once, Neil catches Tom peering at him with a sober expression.

Neil does his share of studying Tom, too, tries to figure out what the hell they’re going to do, not only when they return to the safe house, but for the rest of their time together in the squad. They can’t move past something like last night without consequences. Maybe if he hadn’t let himself succumb to that first moment of weakness, they wouldn’t be in this mess.

If he’d known how Tom would throw it back in his face afterwards, he would have left well enough alone.

When they reach the hiding spot, the sun has fully risen and the dampness is evaporating. The cache is, remarkably, still where they left it, well camouflaged under the pile of soaking branches and leaves. Moment of truth, now, of how well they’ve managed to avoid the Boche: how many are lying in wait. Tom crawls forward to retrieve the stash while Neil provides cover from the surrounding treeline.

For a minute, Tom’s fully exposed in the grassy clearing while he uncovers the case, and Neil forces his heart not to jump to his throat. He constantly scans the area, finger trained on the trigger of his Luger, listening for any footfall, any snapping twigs out of place. He doesn’t relax his vigil until Tom’s crawled back to the safety of the treeline, dragging the case with him.

No Boche at all. For half a second, they trade triumphant grins, until they remember. Tom looks away first, and it hurts more than Neil thought it could.

With the backtracking along the stream and the size of the case, which needs both of them to carry, it takes until mid-afternoon to return to the safe house with the firearms. Aurora stands outside on the front porch of the farmhouse, scanning the treeline for them. The relief on her face is unmistakable when she sees them, but all she says is “You’re late.”

“Ran into a bit of trouble with the weather,” Neil says, “and a flash flood.”

“Had to find shelter for the night,” Tom adds.

Neither mentions the fall in the stream, the missing rucksack, or anything else. Aurora glances at them sideways; they’re filthy and tired, yet their deliberately light tones go beyond that, and they don’t fool her. But since nothing more is forthcoming, she doesn’t press them further. At least, not right away.

“Go inside and clean up,” she says instead, “and get something to eat. Harry can sort through the guns.”

Tom nods, and it’s like he can’t get away fast enough. He rushes inside and upstairs without even removing his mud-caked boots. Aurora stares at Tom’s retreating back, then pins Neil with a puzzled look. He can’t meet her eyes, just ducks his head and wordlessly helps Harry until Tom returns downstairs, scrubbed and wearing fresh clothes. They exchange places, and don’t look at each other as they pass by.

They continue to avoid each other the rest of the day. The others can’t help but notice; they say nothing, but Neil doesn’t miss the worried glances Harry and Alfred trade with Aurora and each other. So really, he’s not surprised when Aurora corners Neil a couple hours later in the kitchen as he’s pouring a glass of wine. She draws him aside to one corner, away from Alfred and Harry at the dining table.

“I don’t know what happened between you and Tom last night,” she begins. Neil opens his mouth to deny anything had, but she continues, “I’m not going to ask, but whatever’s going on, avoiding it is not going to help. You have to work together on this team. You need to work this out between you.”

He frowns at her, but he wonders if that gave something away, because Aurora’s expression then softens and she pats his arm. “Just let yourself be open with him, Neil,” she says gently, “it’ll be all right.”

He wants to say that that was the problem in the first place, but Aurora slips away before he can form the words.

A little later upstairs, Neil’s just about to enter his bedroom for the night when Tom exits the bathroom. They run into each other in the half-darkened hallway; Neil raises his jaw a fraction to catch Tom’s eye. Tom stops and leans against the opposite wall, attempting a casual pose with his hands in his pockets. He pastes a weak grin on his face.

“So Aurora talked to you too, huh?” Tom asks.

Neil stands rigid and gives him a curt nod. “Yeah, she did.”

“She’s pretty perceptive,” Tom adds, “and not to mention, she’s right.”

A brief, awkward silence falls and they both look away. Neil clenches and relaxes his fists. He can still feel Tom’s skin soft under his fingertips, the easy weight of his head pillowed on his shoulder afterwards. The knot in his chest, which has lodged there since Tom shut him out that morning, aches with the memory of it.

He forces himself to gaze back at Tom: from the look on his face, he’s remembering the same thing. For the first time he wonders how much of Tom’s past joking demeanour towards him had simply been his means of coping with the same conflicted feelings.

“So what do we do about it?” Neil gestures between the two of them.

Tom raises his head up to meet him and shrugs one shoulder. “All we can do, I guess. Put it behind us.”

“Like it never happened?”

It sounds more bitter than Neil intends, and Tom flinches at it. “I’m not saying that,” Tom says softly.

Neil blurts the words out, raw and honest, before he can second-guess them. “Cause I can’t forget, what happened back there. I can’t.”

“I know.” Tom’s tongue darts out to lick his upper lip. “Neither can I. But – you know what I mean. We have to move past this to work together. Unless you have any other suggestions?”

A second moment of silence follows while Neil tries to order his thoughts. “We could...” he starts, but he falters, unable to get the words past the lump in his throat.

“We could what?”

Neil hears the unspoken yearning in Tom’s voice and it just about floors him; but the accompanying fear in his eyes silences the rest of what he wants to say. He knows he can’t bear the prospect of Tom shutting him out a second time. “Nothing,” Neil says instead, his voice tight. “We put it behind us, then.” He reaches for the doorknob to his room, turns it open. “Good night.”

Tom blinks and swallows, as if he were hoping for a different answer. “Sure. Okay. See you in the morning,” he says faintly. He begins to head towards his own room down the hall.

_Oh for fuck’s sake_ , but Neil can’t bear to let it go like this either. He needs Tom — he needs an answer from Tom, one way or the other. One hand still on the doorknob, Neil pivots towards him, stretches across the distance with his free hand, and curls his fingers around Tom's just before he passes out of reach. Tom pauses at the touch, his head bowed.

“Stay with me,” Neil murmurs. The _please_ remains unspoken.

Tom hesitates before he turns around. When he does, he looks as close to breaking as Neil feels. He draws an unsteady breath; his face is sombre in the half-shadow. “You know where this will end,” Tom says, his eyes over-bright. “One or both of us—” 

Of course he knows. They’re already on borrowed time. But Neil says firmly, “Not gonna happen, I won’t let it.” Not on his watch, and in the moment he’s convinced of it.

“Neil—” 

“It’s not gonna happen. Whatever it takes, Tom, I don't care.” Neil shakes his head, his gaze glued to Tom's, and he squeezes his hand. “I don't fucking care, mate.”

_Just stay with me._ Whatever it takes to get through the night. He waits, breath painfully suspended, for Tom’s reply.

“Okay,” Tom says at last, squeezing back, and he follows Neil inside.


End file.
